


Icy Eyes

by LilianRoses



Series: In Which Sherlock Is an Alien [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Aliens, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut in Later Chapters, Human John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Telepathic Bond, alien!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 15:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10311884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilianRoses/pseuds/LilianRoses
Summary: Having been discharged from Afghanistan due to an injury to his shoulder, John Hamish Watson is living his life in a state of discontent. He trudges to and from therapist appointments, and that really seems like all he has to 'look forward to' anymore. Until one of his old classmates informs him that he knows of a person looking for a flatmate.Sherlock Holmes is unlike anyone he's ever met, and for good reason.





	1. Icy Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment telling what you think! ^v^/

\-----

John Hamish Watson stared down at his laptop screen, cursing his mind for its lack of inspiration. His therapist (whom still thought he had  _trust issues_ ) had assured him that keeping a blog would help aid in his recovery. But it was a little hard to 'journal' when nothing happened to him.

 

It was always the same. PTSD (which was also responsible for his damn limp) would gift him with nightmares that kept him awake. He'd fall into a fitful sleep in the early morning, before rising early like the army had conditioned him to. He'd sit in his cardboard box of a flat for a few hours, before wandering the streets of London searching for a job. He had therapy twice a week, but he refused to blog about that. So all in all, his existence was a sad, pointless speck on the clear glass of society.

 

Grand.

 

It was on his way 'home' from another fruitless and mostly silent therapy visit that he ran into an old classmate from St. Bart's. He'd made a comment that the last he'd seen him, he was being shot at. John had drily replied that, well, he'd been shot. Before he knew it, Mike had bought him a coffee and he was letting all the things he couldn't tell his therapist flow out like a dam breaking. He made an off-hand comment about his army pension running out, and how there was no way he would be able to afford even his crappy apartment in London without a flatmate. But who'd want to share a flat with him?

 

Mike had just smiled and said that he was the second person to ask him that today.

\-----

Mike had led him into the laboratory where he worked, claiming that this was most likely where  _he_ would be. Before John could ask who exactly  _he_ was, he was looking over a man more attractive than anyone he'd seen in a while, though he hadn't seemed to notice him. But there was something a little...off about him. He was a tad bit too slender, taller than average, with cheekbones far sharper than any model's. His skin was pale, but not translucent like an albino's. It was more like painted porcelain. Curly, black hair hid his eyes from him. A deep baritone echoed through the room.

 

"Glad your back, Mike. I need to use your cellular."

"And why can't you use your own?"

"I sacrificed it for an experiment. If you could hurry; this matter is of the upmost importance."

 

Before John could ask himself what in the bloody hell he was doing, he was offering his cell phone to the stranger.

 

"Um...you could use mine."

 

The man's head snapped upwards and towards him. John's breath seemed to be stolen from lungs. 

 

His eyes were a shade of blue he hadn't seen in real life. He'd think they were contacts, but the colors seemed to almost shift. At that moment they were paling to the color of ice; a blue so pale it was almost clear-looking. But they were undeniably blue. His head tilted to the side as his gaze darted over him, seemingly gathering data in a millisecond. He slowly reached for the phone, shooting off a quick text before handing it back.

 

"Thank you..."

"John. John Watson."

"Well, John, how do you feel about the violin?"

"The violin?"

"Yes, yes. Do keep up. I sometimes play the violin at night to help me think. I keep odd hours, and sometimes don't speak or move for days. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?"

 

John blinked in confusion.

 

"How-"

"I mention this morning that I'd never find a flatmate adaptable enough to handle some of my  _quirks._ Low and behold, he comes to visit me with an old friend, presumably army, who I can imagine is nearing the end of his pension. It's only simple reasoning from there. By the way, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan-no, wait. How could you have known that?"

"Your tan, your posture, your limp, (psychosomatic, I'm afraid), choose one. They all point toward the military. Now if you'll excuse me, I left my riding crop in the morgue."

 

John felt like he was caught in a whirlwind. There was so much off about the conversation that he didn't even know where to start. But a small part of him reveled in having a break in his depressing, oppressive routine. 

 

"Hold on a second. I don't know the address, or even your name, and we're going to look at a flat together?"

"The address is 221B Baker Street. And my name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

 

With a wink and a swish of his coat, he was gone. John looked over at Mike, who only shrugged.

 

"He's always like that."

 

So when he began researching him later that night, he didn't feel as odd for not being able to forget those icy blue eyes. Sherlock had just left quite an impression.

\-----


	2. Lapis Lazuli

\-----

221B Baker Street was a prime piece of real estate smack near the heart of London. John had informed Sherlock that even if they split rent, there was no way he'd be able to pay a fair share. Sherlock had waved off his concern, claiming that their landlady, Ms. Hudson, owed him a favor, and was offering them the flat at a reduced cost. When he asked what he'd helped her with, he had muttered something about the mafia and the death penalty. John had been in awe that Sherlock had kept him from being killed, until Sherlock had denied that he'd prevented his death. He'd ensured it.

 

John had asked no further questions.

 

Ms. Hudson was a kind, maternal elderly woman. She was adamant that she was not their housekeeper, and voiced this fact on a regular basis. Sherlock paid it no mind, but Ms. Hudson didn't truly seem bothered by it. John had to admit that he was guilty of treating her as a housekeeper as well. But her baking was to die for. He'd put on at least five pounds since he'd moved in.

 

John soon discovered that Sherlock had far stranger habits than his unusual hours. His _experiments_ would take up space next to the food. He was getting better with storing it, but still. As a doctor, he knew about the potential for food poisoning. He kept the oddest texts around the house, also. Everything from medical journals to geology books, and he was adamant that everything was relevant to his Work somehow. Speaking of the Work, that seemed to be his driving force most days. He still wasn't quite sure what the Work  _was,_ but it was important to Sherlock and not to be insulted or tampered with. John respected his wishes, and left it be. Sherlock would lie on the couch for hours or even borderline  _days,_ hands in a prayer position, thinking on a particular topic. When he thought of something, he'd immediately burst upwards, and scramble to find a book or online resource with more information. He had since gotten a new phone, and he was constantly texting someone. He'd think it was a girlfriend if Sherlock didn't seem to lack a basic understanding of human social skills, and what was considered acceptable or considerate behavior. So he figured it was this employer of his, and he was keeping them updated on his Work. He expected the violin music to keep him awake at night, but the melodies actually put him to sleep better than any exercises his therapist recommended had.

 

But the one thing he could never get past were the eyes.

 

Although his irises never varied from blue (like, for example, red), the shade varied immensely as time went on. They had most recently settled on the color of a lapis lazuli gemstone. And he was slightly ashamed that he had actually spent time researching a name for that particular shade. Now, compared to most other things Sherlock said and/or did, you'd think that the last thing on his mind would be his eyes. But something about the icy spheres he witnessed when he first met him had drawn him in, and he had started keeping track of when they shifted, and possible reasons why. He was fairly certain that deep thought was behind the current color, and plain curiosity was behind the icy blue. Frustration or boredom darkened them to almost indigo.

 

Or the light could be playing tricks on his already strained mind and he was seeing things. That seemed just as, if not more, likely.

\-----

He was walking home from a shift at the clinic (where he'd finally managed to get a job) when a payphone rang. He didn't even think payphones  _could_ ring. He was about to continue on when it rang again. Realizing that it was possibly waiting for  _him_ to answer it, he picked it up.

 

"...Hello?"

"John Watson?"

"Speaking..."

"A car is being sent to pick you up. Please do not be alarmed, we mean you no harm. We merely wish to speak with you."

 

John stiffened. Something told him that he was not being given a choice in the matter. Not even a minute after he'd hung up, a sleek, black car pulled up to the curb in front of him. The window rolled down, revealing an attractive young woman who did not once look up from her phone.

 

"Please get in."

 

He took a deep breath and climbed inside.

\-----

Of all the places to be dropped off, he was not expecting an abandoned parking structure to be one of them. But there he was, late at night, and no one knew where he was. 

 

Fantastic.

 

A well-dressed figure stepped out of the shadows, leaning on an umbrella. He was hit with a similar feeling that he received from Sherlock, that something was off. But where Sherlock's made him curious, this man's put him on high alert. The stranger raised an eyebrow.

 

"Hm. Interesting. You are a unique one, Dr. Watson. I can see why Sherlock is so fond of you."

"Fond of me?"

"Quite. But that's to be discussed later. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

 

He tapped his umbrella onto the concrete.

 

"You are an interesting one indeed, Dr. Watson. Not many can pick up on the subtle differences we give off, especially in the elder, more experienced of our kind."

 

John's eyebrows furrowed.

 

"...Your kind?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson. Our kind."

 

The man met his eyes. John clenched his jaw against a gasp as the man's chocolate brown eyes shifted into a light, spring green.

 

"As you've no doubt managed to gather, Sherlock and myself are not...fully human. We are humanoids."

"Humanoids. As in 'look like humans, act like humans, but you're not human' humanoids?"

"Yes. Most humans can't even begin to detect the miniscule differences. But you have. Although, it's not as though my brother puts much effort into masking his aura in the first place. He deems it unnecessary, as most people are idiots in his eyes."

 

John couldn't hold in a snort. That sounded like Sherlock.

 

"Be that as it may, you can understand why this matter requires absolutely secrecy on your part."

"I-yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now then, about your flatmate. I've made multiple attempts to monitor his actions in various ways for an exstensive amount of time. But somehow, he always manages to thwart them."

 

An undercurrent of irritation bled through his otherwise composed demeanor.

 

"But he seems to tolerate your presence, which is astounding in and of itself. I am prepared to offer you a substantial sum of money to report his behavior back to me on a regular basis."

"You want me to spy on Sherlock for you?"

"In simple terms, yes."

 

He didn't want to. His intuition had kept him alive for years, so he trusted it. And it was screaming at him that there was a reason why Sherlock didn't want this man in his business. He obviously picked up on his discomfort and imminent refusal, because his mouth tightened and his eyes shifted into a dark oak.

 

"You become very loyal very quickly, Dr. Watson. I know you miss the constant danger that came with being in the army, but I must warn you that some things are best turned a blind eye to. This is not something for you to find cheap thrills in. Anthea's car will take you home."

 

And with that, he turned and took his leave. John wondered if dramatic exits were a species thing.

\-----

Sherlock didn't move from his thinking position once he returned home. He did open his eyes, however, when John checked to make sure the door was bolted and peaked through the curtains. John noted with a hint of hysteria that they were icy blue again.

 

"You're late. And from your sudden increase in paranoia, I assume you had a run-in of the negative kind?"

"I-yes. Listen. Sherlock."

 

He huffed.

 

"I met someone...like you."

 

That made Sherlock sit up straight as if he'd been electrocuted. His eyes were cold steel.

 

"What."

"I met someone like you. When were you going to inform me that you're not a human being?"

"Who- _Mycroft._ That adamant, invasive, manipulative-"

 

Whoever this Mycroft character was, John was glad that he hadn't partnered with him. He doubted Sherlock would be very understanding.

 

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes..."

"Did you take it?"

"No...?"

 

He stared him down before grunting.

 

"Pity. We could've split the fee and fed him false information. Think it through next time."

 

Why did he think he knew what Sherlock would do, again?

 

"Okay. But I think you owe me an explanation."

\-----

 

 


	3. Azure Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me happy and keep me motivated! Please leave one! ^v^/

\-----

John was reminded of his old therapy sessions as he silently stared at Sherlock. It was normally hard to actually explain the differences, but since he was actively looking for them, it was easier to spot them. Sherlock didn't say anything, instead choosing to let him analyze him for a few minutes.

 

"So...you're an alien."

"Yes."

"Mycroft used the word humanoid."

"That technically is the most accurate term. We do share most of the same vital organs, biological functions, and basic needs. Though I have researched and discovered that there are some major differences-"

 

John blinked.

 

"Major differences?"

 

Sherlock shot him a look for interrupting.

 

" _Yes._ Major differences. I don't require anywhere near as much sustenance, for one. I sleep less, I don't have all of the ingrained social instincts that humans seem to have, and my mind is far quicker, more accurate, and I have a better control over it."

"Woah...um. How old are you?"

"In human years? Twenty-eight. In my home planets' years? Closer to thirty-six . We have similar life-spans."

"That's...interesting."

 

John shifted for a second, before he couldn't take it anymore. 

 

"So...what's with the eyes?"

"Ah. You've noticed that?"

"I have. Is there a story behind them? Is there a reason they change shades of blue? Because I've literally been almost dying of curiousity."

"It's just a biological response to changes in temperament."

"So...like a mood ring? They change when you're mad, or sad, or happy or whatever?"

"Well, they're reacting more to the changes in internal fluid pressure, temperature, and heartbeats, but it is a similar concept."

 

John chose to ignore the implication that he had more than one heart.

 

 "Mycroft said something about maintaining an aura of sorts. Does that mean that you've been constantly expending effort to look the way you do?"

"Well...yes. In an attempt to keep my true origins from you, I've been putting more work into maintaining a human appearance."

"Doesn't that tire you out?"

"It's one reason why my eyes change so readily. I've never looked like this consistently for this amount of time. But I've also never met someone who so readily adapted to my odd  _habits._ So I figured it was a fair trade."

 

John scratched the back of his head.

 

"If it's not asking too much...can I see what you normally look like? I promise not to panic and try and kill you or anything."

"Well, it's not as though you could kill me very easily anyway, so I suppose so. Just remember, you asked."

 

With that, the painted porcelain of his skin began to melt away. He didn't really know what he was expecting, but what he received wasn't it. His 'skin' was a sort of pulsating blue hue, shifting from light to dark in various places. His hair color didn't change, but his eyes became more vibrant if that was possible. With a stretch and a sigh, he sat back. John noticed that two long, antenna-like growths had sprouted from his head and down his back, and were absently swishing back and forth like a cat's tail.

 

"Ugh, it's been a while. Imagine tensing your muscles constantly for days on end. It feels astounding to be able to relax."

"Uhuh..."

"Don't be dull, John. I know you have a larger vocabulary than that."

"To be honest, I didn't know  _what_ I was expecting. But you still look sort of human. You could have been a lizard or something."

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

 

"I could actually portray the illusion of being so if I felt so inclined. But you asked to see what I 'normally' looked like. Although I have to admit that you're taking this better than I thought you would."

"Well, you keep severed hands in our freezer and read books about beekeeping. And you're an alien. So it'd be ignorant on my part to expect you to meet my standards of what I consider normal. And how could-"

"My antennae give me a variety of telepathic abilities. Would you like a demonstration?"

 

John's curiousity was telling him to say yes, while his self-preservation reminded him of what happened to the cat.

 

"Will I die?"

"No. Probably not. I'm ninety-percent sure."

"Since I'm probably not going to be satisfied until I do so, sure. Do I have to-"

 

Sherlock's eyes had lightened to an azure steel shade, and his antennae moved. John flinched, but they merely rested on his temples.

 

Everything went dark.

\-----

He came to in a large, ornate foyer. The hallways that seemed to branch off of it extended for seemingly miles. He couldn't find an ending no matter how hard he squinted. Where was Sherlock?

 

"Welcome to my Mind Palace."

 

He spun around, and there he was. He forced himself not to gasp. Sherlock looked even more ethereal here than he did back in their flat. His skin may as well have been made of crystals, and his hair was silver silk.

 

"John. John.  _John."_

"Huh-what? Sorry. I was just thinking. What did you say?"

 

Sherlock's silvery eyebrows furrowed.

 

"What I was  _saying_ was that this is a physical manifestation of my thought processes and memories. You won't get lost in here, because I can remove you anytime I wish. But there are some rooms that you wouldn't find...pleasant. So we'll refrain from a full tour. The way I melded your consciousness with mine is the same way I managed to manipulate how you visually interpret my form. It's complex and scientific and I'm not going to attempt to explain it to you in simple terms because it's not."

 

John had a feeling that he just didn't want to take the time to explain. He didn't enjoy it.

\-----

John slumped forward in his chair. He noticed with a start that they were back in 221B. Sherlock's head tilted towards the coffee table, and he reached forward to grab his phone. He hopped up in excitement.

 

"Brilliant! Just brilliant. Four suicides and now a note. It's probably a serial killer. I love those, there's always something to look forward to."

 

Slower than it had disappeared, his 'human' guise was back, and his antennae were gone. He began grabbing his coat, scarf, and gloves, before turning his azure gaze to John.

 

"You were an army doctor, correct?"

"Yes."

"Probably saw a lot of gore, then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes, I did. Enough to last a lifetime. Far too much."

"...Want to see some more?"

"Oh, god yes."

 

He didn't notice until they were halfway to the scene of the crime that he had ran out of the flat without his cane.

\-----

 

 


	4. Blue Topaz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment! It keeps me motivated and makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside! ^v^/

\-----

It had been a few months since he had moved into 221B. Also, it had been a few weeks since he had discovered that a.) aliens did, in fact, exist, and b.) Sherlock, his flatmate, was one. There wasn't a human word for his species, but it sounded like an deep hum followed by buzz when he said it (thus, Holmes). William Sherlock Scott Holmes had taken his lack of panic at his non-humanity as a go-ahead to relax and let his true self show around him. So it wasn't uncommon to see what looked like a mannequin made of blue topaz laying around the flat. It was no longer unnerving to see him up and walk around, either.

 

(It had been at first, because it didn't look like he should be able to move. But Sherlock had held an arm out for him to examine, and he found out it was far softer than he had originally thought.)

 

He had learned a few things about his species, also. Apparantly his antennae were  ** _not_** to be touched without permission. He had poked one while Sherlock was taking a rare nap and had almost been strangled before he had recognized it was his flatmate and not a threat. He wasn't kidding when he said his species didn't have the natural social instincts that humans had. He didn't mean to offend or purposefully hurt anyone. He just valued logic above all else. Whoever had said _'the truth hurts'_ had obviously known about Sherlock's kind. It didn't really make maintaining positive work relationships any easier.

 

(It was a good thing Sherlock didn't really care in the first place.)

 

His blog was far more popular than it used to be since he began posting about the cases they solved. Sherlock wasn't amused, especially by his titles. His therapist was impressed by his progress, and he had gone from multiple visits a week, to once a week, to once a month, and soon he hadn't felt it necessary to schedule any further appointments. He had thanked Sherlock for his hand in his recovery, and the skin of his cheeks and the back of his neck had gone a deep sapphire, to his horror and John's amusement.

 

(Sherlock had barricaded himself in his room until his coloring had faded.)

\-----

John was currently attempting to learn a few words of Sherlock's home language. His native tongue sounded almost mechanical, and for the life of him John could not replicate it. Sherlock had almost laughed at most of his attempts. 

 

"John.  _John. Jz-ahh-nuwm._ It's not that difficult."

"I'm _trying._ It feels like my mouth is vibrating, and sounds like a car engine."

"It's your  _name."_

"Can human tongues even form these sounds?"

 

Before Sherlock could comment on his inability to do something  _children_ of his species could do, and John could argue back that he hadn't known that the Earth went around the goddamn Sun, something children of  _his_ species knew, there was a knock on the door of their flat. Sherlock's antennae seemed to move like threatened snakes, and he didn't change his appearance.

 

"It's Mycroft. I can sense the fat bastard."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know."

 

John rose to let him in, because Sherlock had made no movement to do so. He had made his disdain for the other member of his family unit quite clear. He would previously have attempted to make Sherlock behave in a somewhat civil fashion, but Mycroft had assured him that he was used to the treatment. John led him into the flat, and Mycroft's mouth tightened at Sherlock's complete lack of an aura.

 

"Brother. Where is your aura?"

"It's not necessary. I'm in my own home, so I don't need to expend the energy."

"You are in the presence of a  _human,_ Sherlock."

"John is trustworthy."

"You cannot place the secret of an entire race onto the shoulders of one human. It's only natural for one to ally with their own kind in times of trouble or danger-"

 

John stepped back as the blue of Sherlock's skin faded almost completely. His eyes had turned a darker shade than he had ever seen as well. It was the color of midnight; a blue so deep it was almost black. He snarled out something in his native tongue, deep and metallic. Whatever it was irritated Mycroft enough for him to drop his guise as well for a split second. If Sherlock was a diamond, Mycroft was a quartz, and his eyes were a deep, dark oak. John's hand itched for his Browning, but he remembered Sherlock saying that it wouldn't do much unless he fired multiple shots at point blank range. But John couldn't just stand there and let him corner Sherlock like that, either. Before he knew what he was doing, he was standing between Mycroft and Sherlock. He glared up at him.

 

"If all you came to do was make Sherlock uncomfortable and insult me in my own goddamn home, you can do all three of us a favor and sod the hell off and get the fuck out."

 

Mycroft's aura returned in a split-second. He looked almost shocked at John's appearance.

 

"...Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Obviously from the change in Sherlock's appearance he feels threatened. And the fact you implied that I would give away his secret for money or fame or glory or whatever shit you're thinking about right now is pretty damn insulting."

 

Mycroft looked between him and Sherlock, and stared at Sherlock for a few more seconds. He said a few more words in their native tongue, before taking his leave. John huffed, before turning to Sherlock. His skin was blue topaz once more, and his eyes had paled. 

 

"So...do you want to tell me what Mycroft said that had you riled up?"

 

Sherlock's color darkened again.

 

"He was just being an invasive fatty again."

"Look, Sherlock, I just want you to know that you  _can_ trust me. I'm not going to betray you."

"My brother thinks I'm an idiot for trusting you so much."

 

John scowled.

 

"Well, you're one of the smartest people I know. So I wouldn't listen to an arse like him."

"I question your intellect, however. You do know that my brother could quite literally rearrange the electrical currents in your brain?"

"I figured."

"And yet you still chose to go against him?"

"Well, I couldn't let him talk to you that way, could I?"

 

Sherlock's cheeks darkened, but he tried to hide it with an irritated expression.

 

"You didn't even know what he was  _saying-"_

"Trust me, I know. You've been telling me about my awful language skills for most of the morning. But really, does he think I'm that bloody untrustworthy?"

 

He groaned, and the dark blue spread.

 

"Ugh. He could tell I've melded minds with you. Remember when I showed you my Mind Palace?"

"Yeah."

"That's something you only do when you have complete trust in someone. The fact that I've done it with a human must seem insane to him."

 

At John's blank look, he ground out his next words.

 

"It's carries a weight similar to having sexual intercourse within your species. You're expected to do it with your chosen life-partner."

 

 _That,_ John understood. His face flushed. That explained why his antennae were off limits.

 

"U-um. Well. I guess, I mean, I didn't realize the significance..."

"I didn't clarify."

"Why didn't you?"

 

Sherlock looked away.

 

"Because you likely would have distanced yourself. You had already accepted things most humans would have ran away from if confronted with. Against popular belief, I know when not to 'push my luck'."

 

John's mind was racing at the implications of his words. Sherlock was curling in on himself, the blue of his skin fading. He decided to do the only thing he could think up.

 

"Meld minds with me."

 

Sherlock's gaze shot to his.

 

"John, you don't-"

"Sherlock. Meld minds with me. I'm not going to touch your antennae without permission, but if you want the truth, then meld minds with me."

 

Sherlock stared at him with icy eyes before his antennae slowly reached towards him. They rested on his temples, and he closed his eyes and let the darkness overtake him.

\-----

He was standing in the same foyer as before. He looked around for Sherlock, but he wasn't there. It didn't take long to figure out that Sherlock wanted him to explore. So he started forward. The 'palace' was empty save for the various rooms. The rooms varied in size and ornamentation, but they all had something very  _Sherlock_ about them. He realized that this was Sherlock's consciousness. Rather than feeling odd, he felt secure. He didn't think to much on that.

 

"Oh. There you are."

 

John blinked as he came face to face with himself. Well, himself, only far more confident and self-assured. Is this what he looked like to Sherlock?

 

"Yes. This is what you look like to Sherlock. He thinks very highly of you, not that he'd ever willingly admit it out loud."

"But, he...I-"

"You accepted him. Even among his own kind, he's been sort of an unusual case. He's on this planet in the first place because he couldn't, nor did he want to, fit into his species' society. He was far too curious about other worlds for their liking."

 

John couldn't imagine Sherlock without his curiosity. It's what made him  _Sherlock._

 

"So he came here where it's socially acceptable to research and experiment. Unfortunately, it's not acceptable to his extent."

 

He remembered Scotland Yard's horror when they 'invaded' (ironically, Sherlock's word) their flat and found various body parts and power tools laying about. Sargeant Sally Donovan had found eyeballs in the microwave, much to her disgust.

 

(John figured it served her right for snooping around like that.)

 

D.I Greg Lestrade had merely looked tired of it all, and demanded the evidence he knew Sherlock had swiped from the crime scene be returned so they could  _"get the hell out of the flat and move on with their lives."_ Sherlock had sulked, but handed the knife and DNA samples over regardless. Mind John smiled, and crossed his arms.

 

"Yeah, he does have some odd habits. But I love the bloke anyway. But you understand that, don't you?"

"...I guess I do. Why didn't he say anything?"

"Because he was scared of losing your acceptance. He's fragile, despite popular belief."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

"It's too late. Our minds are melded, remember?"

 

John smiled back, and left to find Sherlock.

\-----

He found Mind Sherlock in a large room without any furniture. The walls were a frosted blue, and the floor was soft, like an enormous beanbag chair. Mind Sherlock didn't speak for a moment, but didn't expel him either, so he sat down close to him and made himself comfortable.

 

"Why did you ask to meld minds with me, even after you found out the meaning behind it?"

"Well, I think you know the answer to that question. Our minds are linked."

"I just don't understand. I'm not even human. I irritate or offend most people I speak with, human or otherwise. Mycroft told me the only reason you remain around me is because you missed the danger from your life before you were shot. But even that wouldn't make it necessary for you to stand up for me as you did, nor does it explain the emotional attachment that we've developed. I just don't  _understand-"_

 

Mind Sherlock's increasingly choked rant stopped short immediately when John wrapped him in a tight hug. He expected him to feel cold, but his skin was just as warm as a normal human's.

 

"First of all, it doesn't matter to me whether you're biologically a human or not. You feel emotions the same way I do, and care for people like Ms. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade same as a human would. And you _can_ be an obnoxious bloke, but you don't intentionally cut people down without good reason, and you always apologize if the situation calls for it. It's just how you are. And don't believe a damn word Mycroft says, because while I am a bit of an adrenaline junkie, what I'm truly grateful for is the meaning my life has. And you gave me that. Without your brilliant mind, I'd still be floating around without a purpose."

 

He loosened his hold on Mind Sherlock, and found that his everywhere he had touched had turned a deep sapphire.

 

"Why're you-"

 

The blue darkened, and Mind Sherlock groaned.

 

"It's because you hugged me and spouted such embarassing nonsense. It's a biological reaction."

 

John couldn't contain a smirk.

 

"So it's like your equivalent of popping a stiffie?"

" _John."_

"I'm just asking. Do you even have sexual organs?"

" _No._ If a life-pair wants a child, they each take a sample of their DNA to the facility where the next generation is grown-"

"You're all test-tube babies?"

"We develop more like plants or hymenopterans than anything-"

"You reproduce like bees."

" _John."_

"Is that why you have such a fascination with them?"

"I hate you."

\-----

 

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in confusion.

 

"Have you been conducting unsafe experiments, Sherlock? Your wrists and neck are bruised."

"Woah. Has the freak gotten himself a lover?"

"As if anyone would take that psychopath on as lover."

 

Sherlock denied both statements (and emphasized that it was none of their business) while subtly covering the 'marks'. John fought a blush down. The truth was that he and Sherlock had, in fact, had sex. Sort of. Mind Sherlock had informed him that his kind did still manage to have pleasurable relationships without the same genitalia, and John had asked how before he even knew what exactly he was asking. Sherlock had spent hours giving him a thorough 'explanation'. The fact that it didn't happen in the physical world didn't detract from the experience at all. Neither Mind Sherlock nor Physical Sherlock had ever had sex of any sort, but they had refused to let that hinder either of them. It had honestly been a while since John had gotten laid, so he wasn't going to complain about their enthusiasm. By the end of it, everywhere John had stroked, gripped, and/or sucked was cobalt blue, a blaring contrast against Mind Sherlock's crystalline skin that was a clear indicator of what they'd been doing. 

 

(They had both panicked when they returned to consciousness and realized that it had transferred onto Physical Sherlock and wasn't fading, which led to a mortifying call to Mycroft. Mycroft had bluntly said that since this was Sherlock's first exposure to such contact, it would take longer for his coloring to return to normal. As he got used to it, it wouldn't take as long.)

 

But then Lestrade called requesting their presence on a case. They couldn't very well tell him the real reason they couldn't come, so Sherlock had to try his hardest to put his usual aura on. But no amount of effort was wiping away the remnants of what they had done, so there were still little blue splotches in a variety of places. Sherlock had glared at him when he couldn't squash a sense of pride of having put them there. Sherlock had picked up on it through their strengthened telepathic bond, and was not amused. 

 

"I still can't believe that this color hasn't faded yet. And stop looking so...so... _smug_."

"They're proof of your feelings for me. I sort of like them."

" _John."_

 

John would have felt more chastised if the cobalt wasn't spreading.

 

"Come on, honeybee. I know what that means, now, so you can't fool me anymore."

" _Damn_ this transport."

"You're just mad that it's giving you away."

"Even the idiots that make up Scotland Yard noticed.  _Donovan and Andersen noticed._ "

 

His antennae whipped in agitation. John stroked one, and watched in satisfaction as it unconsciously wrapped around his pointer finger. In the back of his mind, he could feel Sherlock's irritation, but also his embarassment and an undercurrent of pleasure at their bond. Sherlock relaxed at the contact, and John took that as his chance to hug him from behind.

 

"It's fine, honeybee. And I'm proud that you're my life-partner."

 

Sherlock didn't vocalize it, but he returned the sentiment through their connection. 

 

John was fine with that.

\-----

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of the series! More to come as inspiration hits! ^v^/


End file.
